


Raised by Wolves

by driggs



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5354042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driggs/pseuds/driggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just because you two were raised by Scottish wolves!" Terri Coverley was many things, but right was very rarely one of them.</p>
<p>[Werewolf AU: monster slice of life]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by rookishhellion's werewolf prompts on shittyaus.tumblr.com: “guys, don’t freak out but I think I just hit a werewolf with my car." Because how could I resist writing about Malcolm & Jamie as a werewolf couple?
> 
> Apologies to any Glaswegians out there--have tried to work in a bit of Weegie (I promise this chapter will see the worst of it), but as an American living in England, it's possible I've made an incomprehensible mess of it.

Malcolm liked to tell people he rescued Jamie from the seminary like he was some sort of stray mongrel of a dog at the shelter that no one else would have given two shits about. Which, like all of Malcolm’s best laconic tales of life in Scotland, had an element of truth to it. The important thing though, was like all Tucker Tales, they were crafted elegantly to hide the truth behind clever subterfuge.

Jamie had in fact been in the seminary. Barely, but that bit was actually true. That wasn’t where the story started, though. It started somewhere else entirely. And it wasn’t Jamie that was first rescued.

It was absolutely pissing rain. Malcolm’s Vauxhall Astra, a mustard yellow rubbish bin on wheels, was barely road-worthy, let alone able to navigate Strathclyde loch’s newest tributary, the A721. To make matters worse, he was the designated driver in a car with his obnoxiously loud drunken mates, Murray and Alan, who were belting Celtic FC chants and giving him a fucking migraine. Not in the least because he was holding onto his newfound sobriety with a white-knuckled death grip _and he was a fucking Rangers fan._ [ _It had been 20 days since he’d finally given up the drink and it was a fucking struggle every moment of every day. Especially after the Rangers loss that night._ ]

“You stoater cunts need to keep the volume down, yeah?” he shouted, while turning up the tinny radio as loud as it’d go. Still not loud enough to drown their voices like fucking rats in a shallow basin, but it was enough of a welcome distraction to focus on getting them all back to Glasgow in one piece, where he could then safely eviscerate the lot before fucking off to bed on a pile of their bones.

“Malc, stop actin’ wide. Yir always tryin’ tae rile us up now!” shouted Murray in the back. Murray had downed the remainder of his and Alan’s pints (along with a few belonging to people they didn’t know) before they’d been unceremoniously kicked out of the pub, had been held back by them as he threw a glass at the wall for the indignity of not being served another round, then had done a wee on the side of the building before Malcolm had threatened to leave his sorry arse in Motherwell if he didn’t get in the fucking car.

Too annoyed, Malcolm couldn’t stop the Weegie he’d fought so hard to suppress from creeping back into his voice. “Hawd it. _I’m_ rilin’ _ye_ up now?”

“Aye, ye’ve been pure gallus for ages. Ever since yir new joab. Yir the height o’ shit, pal. Jus’ sippin’ ginger, cannae even drink wan pint wae us.”

“Aye right.” Malcolm turned to give Murray a smack against his better judgment, but was immediately jerked back to attention as he hit a large pool of water, causing the car to veer violently off the road.

The Astra, being of solid engineering, flipped over into the ditch, somehow not crumpling like the soggy cardboard imaginary car made by wains it actually was. Malcolm’s head smashed against the window, sending a jarring pain through his skull. He was held in place by his seatbelt, but Murray (the walloper), being the only one too inebriated to properly buckle himself, was thrown around the car as it hurtled through the air.

Slowly, Malcolm came to. He was dazed, forgetting he’d been driving with passengers. He forced open the door and gingerly extricated himself from the car. The cold rain pelted his face. He tried to stand and found his right ankle collapsed with his weight, the Astra providing nothing to grip onto as he fell into the mud, the wind rushing from him for the second time in less than fifteen minutes.

Laying in the mud, he noticed the outline of a figure in the light of the headlights. Thinking it was one of his mates, he dragged himself closer.

It wasn’t anyone that had been in the car. It wasn’t even human. But it wasn’t a deer either, which was the most likely animal on these back roads. It looked much more like a wolf. Which was absurd, because there were no wolves in Scotland. There were no wolves anywhere in the UK.

He felt the side of his head and even in the torrential downpour knew that some of the slickness was blood. Which probably explained what was clearly a vivid hallucination of a furred creature’s body rearranging into what appeared to be a man. A wee lunatic of a man.

“My fucking arm is broken,” the man snarled, heaving himself up and cradling his right arm.

Malcolm fell back to the ground, unable to comprehend how this completely nude and irate man had changed from animal to human right before his eyes. Maybe he was dying and this was his brain’s last sadistic trick right before he fucked off to the pearly gates?

“Hey, look at me,” the man said, walking over towards him. He crouched down, while Malcolm tried to avert his gaze so he wasn’t eye-level with the man’s bollocks (a voice in his head saying that perhaps he was dead and this was hell after all--a literal face bollocking while concussed in the middle of a storm). “Shit, shit, shit. How many fingers am I holding up?” The man made a V sign with his fingers, the audacity of which caused Malcolm to snort with pained laughter.

“I know it’s two, but it’s blurred,” Malcolm admitted, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “There are two others--in the car.”

The man looked over at the car, then back at Malcolm. “Just my fuckin’ luck, eh? You hit me and I have to do all the fuckin’ clean up. You’re lucky I was just out for a stroll and it wasn’t a proper full moon.”

“What’s your name?” Malcolm sputtered.

“Some fucking time to be making small talk. This what you really want to do right now or do you want me to help out what’s left of your mates?”

“Figure if I’m getting personal with a man’s boabie while bleedin’ to death that I at least deserve to know the name of the roadkill cunt that’s likely to be the last person I talk to before I die? I’m Malcolm.” Malcolm rolled onto his back and slowly propped himself up to a sitting position, leaning heavily against the car.

“Sorry. Raised by wolves, as it goes. Jamie,” the man replied, looking genuinely apologetic. “Think that’s enough pleasantries? I’d offer you some tablet, but looks like I forgot it in my trousers. Along with my trousers.”

“Aye, come off it and help us out?”

“I have a mind to just fuck off and leave you lot out here til morning,” Jamie replied, baring his teeth. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty, Malcolm finally realised. He was starting to shiver, his normally rapid brain turning sluggish. “Aw, come on. Just what I fucking need.”

Malcolm struggled to keep his eyes open. Jamie slapped him on the side of his face, the sting as cool as the rain against his skin. “You need to stay with me, Malcolm,” he said firmly, putting his hands on the other man’s shoulders and looking straight into Malcolm’s eyes with the fiercest jolt of blue he’d ever seen.

Ever the contrarian bastard, Malcolm finally lost consciousness. Or at least if he didn’t, he was never able to remember the rest of that night. [ _In later years, Jamie would torment him by saying he’d given him an enthusiastic blow job before passing out from the sheer majesty of his cock. In response, Malcolm for years had been able to get Jamie to shut up by blowing on a dog whistle, until he had to chuck it when the sound began to torture him as well._ ]

The next morning he woke up in hospital. Murray and Alan had also somehow made it through the night (or so a nurse had informed him and though she wasn’t sure anyone named Jamie had come in, she promised him that she’d make absolutely sure).

Malcolm looked out the window. It was still pissing with rain. The sheets scratched against his bare legs and he remembered the mud and the grit and the intensely blue eyes of the wee cunt who claimed to be raised by wolves.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter prompt: "apparently not even my werewolf form can forget my big fat crush on you since I keep waking up naked in your yard"

The first morning he opened his curtains to find a naked man asleep in his back garden, he was slightly annoyed. The fifth time it happened, he had blasted out of the stratosphere of annoyance head first into being absolutely fucking livid.

“Right. That’s about fucking enough of this,” Malcolm muttered, running down the steps and throwing open the door to the garden. He pushed the rubbish bins over, hoping to cause enough of a commotion to wake the man up. “Had one too fucking many last night, pal?”

The man rolled over, mumbling “leave us alone, will you? Trying to have a kip.”

Malcolm was stunned. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was bothering you _in my fucking garden_?”

The man’s eyes immediately opened wide. “Shit. Not again.” He hurriedly got to his feet, not bothering to cover up his indecencies.

Malcolm remembered that shock of blue and struggled to recall a name. “I know you. Jamie was it?”

The man finally realised his state of undress and, slowly showing the beginnings of embarrassment, moved to cover himself up. The tips of his ears had blossomed into a brilliant red as he muttered a simple: “Christ.”

“Do you actually own any clothing or are you some sort of wanker naturist?”

“How’s the head?” Jamie asked, changing the topic of conversation without any regard for finesse.

“Are you here to claim some sort of compensation for helping me out? Jesus Christ, you’ve really got some fucking gall--”

The other man motioned with his hands for Malcolm to calm down, forgetting they’d been doing the job of modesty coverage. “Sorry for being fucking concerned!”

“Concerned? Normal people knock on the front fucking door. Fully clothed, I might add. Which still begs the question: _why have you been showing up naked in my back garden for months_?” Malcolm’s patience was wearing down to the bone, the beginnings of a headache spindling their way through the front of his skull.

Jamie merely smiled, a predatory smirk.

“Is this a fucking joke to you, son?”

“Mind if I borrow some trousers?” Jamie asked, once again showing his complete disregard for the basic tenants of human conversation.

“You can get tae fuck if you think your mangy bollocks are going anywhere near my clothes,” Malcolm replied.

“Look, I don’t come here on purpose. I just...you know, right? You’re not a complete fucking moron? I can skip all the usual bullshit where I have to explain it and just skip right to the half-arsed apology?” Jamie paused, then considered. "Suppose I could give a full-arse apology in my current state."

“Christ, are you fucking mental? What are you on about? Explain what?”

“The werewolf shit, yeah? Every morning I’ve been here has been the day after a full moon,” Jamie said casually, licking his lips, as if it were the most normal explanation he could have offered. “You’re such a miserable cunt that I thought you were one of us at first.”

“Leaving this fucking nutter revelation to the side, it's still a piss poor explanation of why exactly you keep showing up like a Tory MP’s fucking rent boy?” Malcolm’s head was swimming. He hadn’t been this out of his depth in years and he was working twice as hard to give the appearance of steady control over the situation. The right side of his skull throbbed, where he’d hit it against the glass of the (completely destroyed) Astra’s window several months before.

“Can we go inside? It’s a bit cold out here,” Jamie asked, motioning downward and somehow also working in what appeared to be a suggestive leer.

“You sound like you’re auditioning for world’s tiniest, shittest rapist,” Malcolm frowned, eyeing Jamie suspiciously.

“Come off it. As if your skeletal arse is so attractive that I couldn’t possibly control myself around you,” Jamie snarled, though Malcolm noticed the briefest flash of animalistic fear in his ridiculously huge eyes. “Also: fuck off because I’m not even gay.”

“Neither am I,” Malcolm replied quickly.

“Good. That’s good.” Jamie stood there awkwardly. “Now that we’ve established that we’re both not gay and I have no interest in fucking you, let us in then?”

Face set in a severe scowl like some sort of tawny owl, Malcolm sighed and kicked open the door. “Don’t touch anything. And don’t fucking sit on anything. You look like you might be flea-ridden. Or fucking infested with crabs.”

Because he’d turned his back to Jamie, Malcolm missed the very small, very appreciative smile that flickered over the other man’s face as he bounded after him with all the enthusiasm of an overly large dog.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh it’s my wee fucking stalker,” Malcolm groaned, shutting the front door behind him.

Jamie was practically vibrating with energy, licking his lips nervously and running his hand through his ridiculous mop of messy brown hair. He was fully clothed (thank fuck) and had a tattered old satchel slung across his shoulder.  “No I’m not fucking stalking you. Came back to give you these,” he said, pulling some clothes out of the satchel. Presumably the ones he’d borrowed a few weeks ago.

“I told you to burn them,” Malcolm said. “They’re probably infested with fleas or whatever venereal disease werewolves get.”

“I shower every fucking day,” Jamie protested. “Probably cleaner than you.”

“Doubtful. I did say don’t fucking bother giving them back, though. So why are you here?” Malcolm started walking towards the train, his unwanted companion following closely behind.

“D’you want to grab a pint sometime?” Jamie stuttered, too quickly. “Like tonight?”

“Don’t drink,” Malcolm replied simply, taking a look at his wristwatch and frowning.

Jamie seemed crestfallen. “Tea? Coffee?”

Stopping suddenly, Malcolm turned towards Jamie. “What are you fucking playing at, son?”

Jamie merely shrugged. “You’re a miserable cunt, but you’re not boring like everyone else in this fucking city.”

“Seems like a gross generalisation. Have you met everyone else in this city?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow, still surprised that he was even talking to this mongrel, let alone risking running late to work to do so.

Somehow, the size of Jamie’s ridiculous, cartoonish eyes seemed to double. “I’ve met enough of them.”

Chalking it up to the stroking of his not insignificant ego, Malcolm relented. “Amalfi Pizzeria. West Nile between Sauchiehall and Bath streets. I can usually fuck off from work around 8 or so?”

The smile was very small and very brief, but Jamie managed to choke out a “yeah, that sounds fine” before Malcolm turned and resumed walking briskly towards the train.

* * *

 

The new freelancers _The Herald_ had brought in were fucking wastes of the skin their emaciated brains had been chucked into and Malcolm was getting pretty fucking tired of rewriting every single article in his section. He took a look at his watch and said ‘fuck’ a few times, realising that it was now an hour later than when he said he’d meet Jamie for dinner. He grabbed his coat from the stand and rushed out of the building, glad he’d chosen a place that was just around the corner.

Out front, he saw Jamie, denim jacket collar flipped up against the wind and the spitting rain, taking a long drag on a cigarette. Jamie looked up, flicking the cigarette into the wind. “I was about to fucking leave.”

“I’m not saying I’m fucking sorry for being late,” Malcolm said, breathing heavily from having run the short distance his office. He opened the door to the small pizzeria, smiling at the staff who, to Jamie’s surprise, greeted him warmly.

“ _Buona sera_ , Malcolm! _Due_?” asked an older woman behind the counter.

“ _Si, grazie_ ,” he replied, taking a seat at one of the tables without bothering to wait.

“How often do you come here?” Jamie asked, taking off his jacket and hanging it off the back of his chair.

“A thousand times a week. What does it fucking matter? It’s good and near the office,” he replied.

“Are you always such a prickly cunt?” Jamie asked, smiling at the waitress when she handed him the menu.

Malcolm glared, taking the menu he was handed but not opening it. “I could just fucking leave.”

“Fuck me,” Jamie muttered in response before he took a look at his menu. “What’s good here?”

“The lasagne,” he replied.

Jamie took a look at the menu and frowned. “I don’t eat meat.”

“You’re fucking joking. You don’t fucking eat meat? Jesus.” Malcolm opened the menu and took a look. “The _gnocchi alla Sorrentina_. Unless you’re vegan, in which case you’re on your fucking own here, pal.”

Jamie took a look at the dish description, then closed his menu.

“Good?” Malcolm asked.

Jamie nodded.

The waitress saw Malcolm’s slight head nod and went over with a pad to take their order.

“ _Prego_ ,” she said, looking at Jamie expectantly.

Jamie looked like a trapped animal at the simple question, so Malcolm decided to take over. “ _Gnocchi alla Sorrentina per lui e una lasagne per me, per favore_.”

“ _Va bene_ ,” she replied, jotting down the order. “ _Vino_?”

“ _Un'acqua minerale per me_ ,” Malcolm said, then looked at Jamie. “You want anything to drink?”

Jamie looked up, eyes still absurdly huge, as if he’d never heard another language spoken outside of Weegie before. “Beer?”

“Peroni all right, darling?” the woman asked, switching easily to English.

Jamie nodded. He turned his attention back to Malcolm. “What the fuck was that?”

“It was fucking Italian.”

“But why were you fucking speaking it?”

Malcolm smirked. “My Da’s side is Italian. You heard most of what I can speak, with the exception of a few chat up lines.”

“That actually work? Speaking Italian to a burd at a pub in Glasgow?”

Malcolm scratched his head. “Not sure.”

“What the fuck do you mean you’re ‘not sure’?”

The waitress came back with their drinks, Jamie taking the bottle of beer happily and completely disregarding the glass she’d brought for him to pour it into.

Malcolm decided a change of topic was in order. “What exactly do you do besides pretend to be someone’s nan and eat small children?”

Jamie frowned. “I’m not a fucking monster, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Raising his hands in mock defeat, Malcolm shook his head. “Hey, just making a fucking joke.”

“Make a different fucking joke next time.” Jamie’s voice was low and serious. “I’m in the seminary.”

Malcolm choked on his water, laughing. “No you fucking aren’t.”

“Well. I was, but I’m taking a break.”

“Crisis of faith?” Malcolm asked, not sure himself if he was making a joke or not.

“One of the fucking priests kept comparing me to the wolf of Gubbio. Saying I’d be ‘tamed by the light of the Holy Spirit.’ I couldn’t fucking deal with that sanctimonious cunt anymore, thinking the church was saving me from being a monster since I’m _nae a fucking monster_.”

“You left the seminary because of a fucking fairy tale about a wolf?”

Jamie considered for a moment, looking Malcolm directly in the eyes. “ _How much we ought to dread the jaws of hell, if the jaws of so small an animal as a wolf can make a whole city tremble through fear_.”

Malcolm suddenly realised why he’d relented and hadn’t told Jamie to fuck off for good that morning. In him, he saw the reflection of his own ambition and the desire to break free of the institutions that sought to hold him down, keep him compliant. “Do you write?”

Jamie took a sip of his beer. “Wrote for the seminary newsletter. Well, I fucking wrote the newsletter.”

Malcolm pulled a small notepad from his inner blazer pocket and jotted some words down quickly before ripping the paper out and handing it over to Jamie. “I’m taking a fucking leap here. And I think you’re going to be fucking _terrible_ for a long time. But you can’t be any worse than any of these other morons they’ve got freelancing for us.”

Jamie took a look at the paper. In carefully scrawled capital letters read:

_MALCOLM TUCKER_  
_THE HERALD - CRIME & COURTS EDITOR_

“What is this?” Jamie asked.

“It’s not a job,” Malcolm explained. “But I want you to write a few articles for me. And if you’re good, I’ll keep asking you to write articles for me. Obviously we’ll fucking pay you and everything, all right?”

Jamie folded the paper and stuck it in his trouser pocket. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, that sounds fucking all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has somehow worked its way into being a significantly more linear story than I'd originally intended, but mostly because I skipped too far in the future with the lads and wrote something so angsty it bummed me out. That'll come...at some point.
> 
> Really had to scrape the ol' brain for the Saint Francis & the wolf story, along with the (incredibly basic) Italian. Apologies to any Catholics or Italians, the greatest slice of apology going to Italian Catholics.


	4. Chapter 4

Jamie wasn’t completely hopeless at freelancing, nor a stinking heap of mangy fur haphazardly formed into a shape someone thought was human, to Malcolm’s surprise. And to Jamie’s, Malcolm wasn’t some sort of strange robot who had been programmed to eviscerate but given the spindly body of a malnourished political prisoner.

They’d become friends. Or whatever it was that creatures like them became when reaching a place of mutual respect and, despite the predilection to punch something when the word was used, affection.

Which was why, as friends ( _allies_ , as Malcolm often corrected others), they decided to go in on a flatshare. It just made sense. They were already spending late nights at the office together, ripping apart the shit that the writers saw fit to submit and reformatting into something at least moderately readable. Jamie had been promoted from freelancer to staff writer to a section co-editor (local arts & entertainment, which was horrible fluff but it was salaried) within a matter of months and Malcolm had clawed his way into covering local politics, frequently picking up national stories whenever he could wrest them from some other wanker.

“How long do you see yourself staying in Glasgow?” Malcolm asked Jamie one night, picking at the spaghetti he’d made. It was a lean month, which meant the quality and quantity of available food in the flat had significantly decreased due to other expenses. Not that Malcolm ate much as it was, but Jamie often relied on scraps since he couldn’t be bothered to eat anything that pretended to have nutritional content otherwise.

“Never thought about it,” Jamie replied, sipping on an Irn Bru and wishing as he always did that it was a beer. But Malcolm had asked him before moving in if he had a problem with not being able to drink in the flat and Jamie had clenched his jaw and said that he didn’t. “But I guess forever.”

Malcolm looked at him, setting his fork down. “Why?”

“Never properly been anywhere else? May be shite here, but at least it’s the shite I know.”

“Ever been to London?”

Jamie eyed him suspiciously. “Are you moving to London?”

Malcolm simply shrugged. “Not sure. Had a few papers call me. Mostly small papers, glorified blankets for a jakey. One was a proper rag. Tabloid, but supports Labour.”  
  
“Malc, you could run this paper in five years. Why start all over?”

“I don’t want to run this paper,” Malcolm said simply. “I fucking despise this paper.”

“But you could be the fucking king here,” Jamie countered, as if Malcolm had suddenly gone mad.

“King of the rubbish heap. This is shite, Jamie. I’d rather get gangbanged in London than have all the fucking twats in Glasgow keep my cock finely polished until I die from absolute fucking boredom at 45.” There was desperation in his eyes. The desperation of a trapped animal, willing to gnaw his own leg off to escape.

 _Jesus fucking wept_ , Jamie thought. “All right,” he replied.

Malcolm tilted his head, “all right?”

“Yeah. Fuck,” Jamie swallowed, the reality of the situation finally hitting him. “I’m a fucking soldier, Malcolm. You say jump and I’ll fucking ask how high you want the fucking pile of carcasses.”

Which was how Jamie found himself behind the wheel of a hired van the following week, hauling all of their worldly possessions south into fucking _England_ , humming along to a tired cassette of _The Very Best of Al Jolson_ (much to Malcolm’s chagrin and relentless complaint). Malcolm had gone down a week earlier and secured “an absolute shitstain of a flat” for them in some dingy corner of the city.

But Jamie somehow didn’t care that all of this was little more than a glorified kamikaze mission. Somewhere in the hollowed out crevice where he’d hidden his blackened, festering heart, he knew that he’d always follow Malcolm. He had no other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update this time and still along a linear timeline, but I felt I needed to get the lads out of Glasgow to move on properly with this little mess of a story.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit of Christmas fluff, if that's a thing you're into.

Malcolm noticed the small green plant one night as he shuffled off his overcoat, pushing back his rain-soaked hair from his face. He groaned. He’d known Jamie to often be overly sentimental, but this was the limit.

“What is this?” Malcolm asked, kicking off his shoes and walking into the kitchen. Noticing Jamie was preparing some sort of food item, he groaned. “What are you doing?”

“Malc. Tomorrow’s Christmas?”

“Yeah? Hadn’t noticed all of the fucking lights that have been strung up around the city for the past month, have I? I’m that fucking oblivious to the world around me?” Malcolm grabbed a glass from the cupboard and some orange juice from the fridge. “So what are you making, then?”

“Pudding,” Jamie replied. “And before you fucking ask, no, there’s no fucking alcohol in it.”

“I’ve never fucking seen you cook before.” Malcolm took a seat at the table, torn between annoyance and bemusement. He settled somewhat uneasily in the middle. “You didn’t care about Christmas last year in Glasgow?”

“Well I wouldn’t have needed to. Still surrounded by the thousands of fucking McDonalds that roam the Strathclyde wilds. We always pull ourselves together for a few game birds and puddings on the day.” Jamie went back to his pudding mixture, intently focused on the recipe before him.

“Does your family buy the birds or carry them in by their necks freshly hunted?” Malcolm asked.

Jamie turned, failing to notice Malcolm’s jibe. “Aye, a few cousins still bring the traditional wild-caught grouse. Haven’t had any birds since I was a wee pup, but it’s not Christmas without a pud and England’s fucking miserable enough as it is.”

“Do you hate it here?” Malcolm’s voice was soft and rough. He would blame it on the juicy bits in the juice if Jamie dared to notice it.

Jamie stopped what he was doing and wiped his hands on his pants. “I think the English are the most boring cunts in the world and London is an absolute shithole. And this flat can get tae fuck.”

Malcolm looked intently at his hands, cracking his knuckles, distancing himself as best he could.  
  
“But I don’t hate being here,” Jamie said finally. Then, too soft, soft enough that they could both deny it had ever been said, finished: “with you.”


	6. Chapter 6

“These parks are fucking miserable,” Jamie whined, drying himself off with a dingy towel. “Full of foxes and rats.”

Malcolm looked up from the kitchen table. Somewhere along the way he’d picked up smoking again, sucking in the nicotine like a fish struggling to breathe out of water.

“Malc, did you sleep at all last night?” Jamie asked, wrapping the towel around his waist. He noticed the way Malcolm’s fingers trembled just slightly as he held the cigarette, the way they did after sleepless nights or too long without eating.

“What happens with foxes?” Malcolm asked. He seemed genuinely curious.

“I fuck ‘em,” Jamie replied.

Malcolm furrowed his brow. “That’s fucking disgusting, son.”

Jamie smiled, scratching his chest. His skin was still buzzing with the change back to his human form and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get to bed anytime soon. “Of course I don’t fuck foxes. Have you finally had that stroke you’ve been working on for the past two months?”

“Leave us alone,” Malcolm mumbled, taking a drag off his cigarette and flicking the ash into a paper coffee cup.

Jamie sat down beside him at the table, looking at Malcolm intently. “I can’t afford this place on my own if you fucking keel over.”

Malcolm stubbed out his cigarette, remaining silent.

Jamie was generally respectful of Malcolm’s personal spaces. Both his physical space and the areas of the flat that he occupied. But Malcolm was trapped somewhere very dark and lonely and Jamie, being the mess of hormones that he was at the moment, reached out and touched the side of Malcolm’s face before he could think better of it.

Malcolm didn’t recoil. He didn’t growl or shake off the touch. If anything, he leaned into it. Just slightly. Just enough for Jamie to work up the courage to launch himself at Malcolm, pulling his head up just slightly to kiss him properly, pulling him out of the chair as he took in the scent of cigarettes and orange Fanta, of the city, of the rain. Malcolm smelled of anything but himself, every atom of his being desperate to keep everything out. Except, apparently, Jamie. Malcolm didn’t turn to stone; he didn’t go rigid. If anything he was reciprocating with just as much desperation for the contact.

Jamie pulled back and looked at Malcolm in the eyes with a precious look of confusion on his own face. “I thought that would be a lot fucking harder.”

A ghost of a smile played across Malcolm’s lips. “We’ve both always been pretty adamant that we’re not gay.”

Jamie shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s what this is.”

A defiant snort from Malcolm. “What would you fucking call it then?”

“You’re always looking for the fucking byline,” Jamie retorted. Then, realising he was in fact talking to the master of words and that he was in no mood to have his own words twisted, added: “and no, I’m not doing fucking wordplay here with ‘bi.’”

“So it’s nothing then?”

Jamie looked at him, eyes impossibly huge like some sort of cartoon puppy. “You want it to be nothing?”

Mouth agape, Malcolm shook his head. “Fuck. No. Christ, I just meant--this,” he said, motioning between the two of them, “whatever it is, whatever it was or will be...it’s just us, right? It’s not whatever the rest of the fucking world wants to call it. Whatever the rest of them will think, it doesn’t matter.”

“But it does fucking matter,” Jamie replied, resolutely.

Malcolm nodded, grabbing for one of Jamie’s hands. “Of course it fucking matters to us. But just us.”

“Look, I don’t really want to fucking talk anymore,” Jamie sighed. “Can we go to bed?” He barely waited for a nod from Malcolm before pulling him up, pulling him towards his room. 

Malcolm, allowing himself to be tugged along, stopped short at Jamie’s door. 

“It’s clean, stop fucking around,” Jamie growled, nipping at Malcolm’s collarbone.

“My bed’s better,” Malcolm said, running his hands up and down Jamie’s side. He hooked a finger in a trouser belt loop and pulled Jamie towards his room.

\--

Waking groggily, Jamie felt a solid warmth pressed against his side and the heavy weight of Malcolm’s arm over his chest. Jamie’d kicked off the duvet in the middle of the night and, though he was a comfortable temperature, from the chill of Malcolm’s skin and the way he’d pressed himself against Jamie, it was clear Malcolm needed some cover. Jamie rolled over to grab the duvet, pulling it over Malcolm completely.

Jamie had seen Malcolm sleeping before. Naps on the couch after long nights. Sleep hard won from a long day of being roundly fucked by the job. But this was Malcolm completely unguarded. Jamie stared at the curve of Malcolm’s top lip, how his lips were slightly parted. The strong brow relaxed, hair mussed. Malcolm, for a moment in his life, wasn’t in complete control. And Jamie wanted to punch a wall it was the most beautiful fucking thing he’d seen in his life.

Snaking his arm under the duvet and around Malcolm, he hoped he could steal a bit more contact. Malcolm exhaled, groaned, then rolled onto his side, allowing Jamie to spoon him properly.

“You’re a fucking furnace,” Malcolm grumbled, rolling back around so he could glare at Jamie with heavy-lidded eyes.

Jamie ducked in for a cheeky peck on the lips. Malcolm put a hand on his side, but didn’t press for anything more.

“I’d like a lie in.” Jamie said, extending a hopeful invitation.

Malcolm rolled Jamie over to look at the clock on the bedside table. The lines of stress had already begun to creep back into his face. “Yeah, could do with a lie in for a change.”


	7. Chapter 7

The thing about most werewolf literature, if anyone were to listen to Jamie go off on a tangent for longer than the two minutes it typically took him to become fed up with someone, was that it was fucking wrong. Jamie had been writing publishing companies and authors for years with poetically violent prose seeking to set the record straight on all manner of misconceptions. He’d yet to receive a response that wasn’t a cease and desist.

First: becoming a werewolf. It was true that most werewolves had come by it through a bite. Or via surviving a light mauling. But some people were simply born werewolves. Jamie was one of those, which made him, in his opinion, a fucking expert on the subject.

Second: most of the werewolf literature referred to shape-changing during the light of the full moon. As if it was the light itself that initiated the shift. But the reality was that most werewolves could change whenever they fucking felt like it. It was hard to fight shifting during a full moon night (not impossible, but it was like holding back Big Cyril from a buffet), but it was also hard to fight accidentally changing into a furrier, four-legged form when experiencing a significant chemical reaction. Anger did it. As did ecstasy.

By the time he was 30, Jamie figured he’d gotten his accidental shifts under complete control. A man that threatened mutilation and mass murder before the first coffee of the day couldn’t risk any workplace-related accidents. Afterall, he had to think about Health & Safety. The problem was, he’d spent such a significant effort controlling accidental shifting that blossomed from anger over the years that he’d completely neglected to think of any other massive surge of physiological responses that could trigger a reaction.

Like, just as an example, a really fucking fantastic orgasm.

“Oh fuck,” Jamie groaned into Malcolm’s neck.

The change happened in an instant. As the pleasure flushed through his body, Jamie’s canine teeth elongated and he sunk them into the crook of Malcolm’s neck. Some part of his brain reacted quickly and he was able to extricate himself from all compromising positions before the change completely took over.

“Did you fucking bite me?” Malcolm asked, panting as he felt his neck. “Oh fuck. You did. You fucking bit me!”

Jamie, struggling to make sense of the rush, fell backwards off the bed, tangled in the sheets and whining some sort of awful high-pitched sound.

His hand covered in blood, Malcolm looked at Jamie and shook his head. When he finally spoke, his voice was very low and very dangerous. “You need to fuck off out of my sight right now.”

Malcolm pulled a pair of discarded pants over himself, applying pressure to the side of his neck as he stumbled towards the toilet. Jamie could hear the sound of the taps turning on, the sound of Malcolm pulling the box of plasters from the cabinet. What he didn’t expect to hear was the sound of skin on glass, the desperate yelp of “oh fuck,” and a body crumpling to the floor.

Jamie finally pulled himself together, forcing his body to return to its human shape. He decided that Malcolm could get tae fuck and that he wouldn’t be leaving him (not that night, not ever). He pushed open the door to the toilet and found Malcolm sitting against the wall of the tub.

“I’ve never even been fucking curious about what it’s like for you. I have absolutely no fucking interest in being what you are,” Malcolm sputtered, holding a flannel to his neck. Jamie noticed the knuckles of his right hand were sliced open, blood trickling from the yawning gashes in the skin. “There’s not a chance I won’t become a werewolf, is there?” Malcolm asked, looking up at Jamie with the worst fucking mixture of hope and self-pity.

Rationally, Jamie knew that he should be sympathetic. That this was a traumatic event, particularly for a man so desperate to hold tight the reins of control over every aspect of his life as Malcolm was. But it didn’t stop him from being so fucking offended by Malcolm’s audacity. “No,” Jamie replied. “No fucking chance.”

Malcolm looked away.

“Get off your high fucking horse, Malc,” Jamie snarled. “This isn’t some fucking curse. You’re no more a monster now than you were ten minutes ago, than you were this morning when you made that fucking freelance reporter cunt cry in the canteen.”

Malcolm laughed bitterly. “You might be right,” he said quietly.

“Shit,” Jamie said, klaxons ringing in his head at Malcolm’s ease of acquiesce, taking note at how his normal pallor had lightened so as to no longer be observed along the visible spectrum of light for humans.

The thing was, though he was absolutely a fucking expert in being a werewolf, Jamie had never bitten anyone nor had he never known anyone that had become a werewolf through a bite. So he didn’t know what happened next. He wasn’t sure when the slightly more rapid healing set in. He wasn’t sure if Malcolm had to wait for his first full moon to change or if he’d accidentally shift into his new form anytime he got too worked up about some useless Oxbridge cunt fucking up yet another line in some press release.

What he really didn’t know was: if he took Malcolm to hospital, would he change and would they both be sent somewhere horrible? He hoped not, because from the sweat on Malcolm’s brow, the glassiness of his eyes, Jamie knew they couldn’t wait around in the toilet until something happened. Because whatever it was wouldn’t be good.

At A&E, as they waited, Jamie held the bloodied flannel to Malcolm’s neck with a good amount of pressure, his other hand holding the wrapped cloth on Malcolm’s mangled hand and gently massaging the palm. Malcolm was catatonic at this point, completely unaware, either because of the blood loss or because he was so fucking livid his body couldn’t cope with doing anything lest it rip itself into a thousand tiny, spiky pieces.

The third thing that all the literature got wrong was that being a werewolf didn’t equal being a monster. Full stop. If a man was a monster, it didn’t matter the skin he wore. Jamie knew he was often a wee shite and an absolute bastard, but had always been very adamant he was no monster. He’d gotten into fights (at school, at pubs, once at a Tesco where he’d knocked down the shelving with all of the eggs) for anyone who knew what he was daring to insinuate that just because he liked to run around on four legs every so often meant the village had to show up to his flat with fucking pitchforks and torches to stop him from killing sheep or kiddies or whatever it was that monsters were meant to do. Some might have argued that launching into a frenzy of punches at an accuser was exactly the sort of reaction a monster would have to being called such, but in Jamie’s mind the punches were perfectly normal and proved he could be human like the rest of them.

The problem about the whole thing now (well, Jamie supposed he had a lot of fucking problems, but this was the biggest one) was that Malcolm might actually have already been a monster. Or slowly transforming into one, without the aid of Jamie’s latest addition. He’d been slowly wrenching power and control at work for himself, getting promoted sometimes twice a year, through very clever social engineering and a frightening scorched earth policy when it came to anyone that stood in his way’s career. Within the last few years, as he’d shifted from papers to politics through carefully collected connections, he’d begun to fully embrace the Machiavellian aspects of his nature, manipulating subordinates and crafting fabulous catastrophes for whoever he directly reported into, making himself absolutely fucking _necessary_ to the party through his ability to clean up any shitstorm that blew threw.

It was always “just one more time, Dave’s an absolute cunt and fucking cheats on his wife” or “Hannah’s an idiot, she couldn’t drive a toy train around a track without me forcing her hands on the remote.” But the excuses to humiliate someone and take someone’s often fairly earned job were becoming thinner and more frequent. And it had been a long time since Malcolm had taken pleasure in using power to further his ideologies. Now he only took pleasure in the power itself.

There had already been a wolf inside Malcolm. Malcolm just hadn’t realised it.

 

* * *

 

[ _Adjusting_ ]

 

Malcolm was fucking moping. It had been weeks. Jamie had tried to coax him into attempting a change, test things out before the big one when he wouldn’t have a choice. Malcolm had steadfastly refused, oscillating between pretending like it wouldn’t actually happen and hurling vitriol that now actually had razor-sharp teeth behind it.

Jamie was fucking fed up. He was tired of being treated like he was some moronic fuck up and he was tired of having to walk on tiptoes around Malcolm’s adolescent temper for fear of setting him off on some ridiculous tirade.

After one particularly spectacular meltdown the day of the full moon, Jamie finally snapped. Malcolm had been right behind him, in his personal space, shouting at him about something stupid like not taking the rubbish out or not rinsing the fucking hairs from the sink after he shaved that morning. Jamie turned suddenly and punched Malcolm in the jaw, tackling him to the floor as Malcolm took precious seconds to react to what was happening.

Unfortunately for Malcolm, the combination of emotions boiling over and the pull of the moon in the sky stole his last bit of hard fought control over his body and he groaned in pain as every part of it rearranged. Jamie jumped back off him, watching with fascination. Malcolm’s eyes went wide, tears at the corners. Jamie had often thought there was some savage beauty to the wolf’s shape, but the transition was nothing short of grotesque.

When it was done, Malcolm lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, looking ridiculous as a wolf in human clothing.

“Guess that settles it. Welcome to the club,” Jamie said, curious if Malcolm’s denial was so strong as to disbelieve this development. He was met with whimpers. “Oh you fucking Jessie. Get over it.”

Jamie approached Malcolm carefully, as he assumed that bereft of the bite of his words he’d turn to actually biting. Tentatively, he placed a hand on Malcolm’s neck, slowly digging his fingers into the coarse hair and massaging. “All right?” he asked, softer.

Malcolm nodded, slightly.

“I’m going to try to get you out of your clothes without ripping them much more. Help me out a bit, yeah?” Jamie asked as he delicately began undoing Malcolm's shirt and trousers, finally removing his pants. It would be comical [ _and years later, the two would have a proper laugh about this moment_ ] if not for Malcolm’s continued compliance. The bastard only ever went limp when he was depressed, hurt, or ill and this seemed to be the worst combination of all three.

“Malcolm, I need you to look at me,” Jamie said, firmly.

Yellow eyes met his own, staring at him with intensity.

“I know you think this is shit. And I can’t take it back now that you have it. But we can share this. This can be a good fucking thing, yeah?” Jamie said, hating himself for getting hopeful that Malcolm would stop acting like an absolute cunt for a few hours of his miserable life.

Malcolm moved closer, just slightly. Jamie ran a hand behind Malcolm’s ears, scratching lightly, the way he’d liked others to do it. “You want me to change now? Or you want to feel it out a bit?”

Jamie wasn’t entirely sure if wolves had enough facial expressions to give a patronizing look, but somehow Malcolm had worked it out. Jamie realised there was no way Malcolm could answer him as he’d posed the questions. He wasn’t too used to this placement swap. He was getting anxious to change himself, now. Skin buzzing, fingers twitching. Sunset was still a few hours off, but he felt the pull of the wolf in his bones.

“Malc, I’m just going to change, all right?”

Malcolm let out a rough bark (there, that was the good ol’ Malcolm back at it) and trotted over to the kitchen, motioning towards the fridge.

“Yeah, all right. Good point.” Jamie poured them both some water in large serving bowls, noticing a distinct look of wolfish disgust from Malcolm--he’d hear it later for using dinner party servingware, though since Malcolm mostly entertained work twats, Jamie figured he was doing him more of a favour. They didn’t have much in the way of food besides a bit of leftover takeaway, which Jamie was more than happy to let Malcolm have once he’d reheated it in the microwave.

“Usually I like to go out, but I’ll just open the door to the back garden and pop out if I need to. You want the TV on or some other type of stupid fucking night in rubbish?”

Exasperation this time.

“Watch it or I’ll put it on fucking Gold and we’ll watch re-runs of fucking _EastEnders_ all night until we claw our eyes out.” Jamie flicked the TV on, switching it to BBC Two. “There, when _Newsnight_ comes on, you won’t have to complain. Can I fucking change now?”

Malcolm was looking intently at the couch. As if he were trying to make a decision about something. He looked back at Jamie.

“Christ. Are you really this fucking anal retentive? You want me to get some old blankets so you don’t smell up the couch?”

Jamie might have missed it, the way he almost always nearly missed it, but he saw the briefest glimmer of gratitude. It was enough to make his wee shriveled heart grow...well, not enlarged like he was having some fucking cardiac trauma, but maybe to right around the normal size.

So Jamie fetched the blankets, spread them out. Malcolm hopped up and curled in on himself, looking really fucking satisfied, the smug bastard. Jamie finally got his chance to change before Malcolm silently demanded some other ridiculous thing, hopping up on the couch next to Malcolm and nudging him over slightly as he rolled onto his back, belly in the air. It was shameless.

Malcolm didn’t rouse from his spot, curled up and intently focused on whatever hapless cunt of a Tory MP was being grilled by Paxman. Jamie roamed the back garden a bit, torn between whether to slip through the opening in the fence or stick out the night on the couch. Figuring Malcolm might be a bit ornery if he disappeared, he chose the latter, ignoring his restlessness and curling up beside Malcolm.

He was roused from sleep the next morning by laboured breathing and the firm grip of long fingers on his arm.

“Jesus fuck,” Malcolm swore, looking at Jamie with a pained grimace. “Why didn’t you tell me it hurt that much?”

Jamie stared at him. “It doesn’t,” he replied simply, pulling Malcolm into a tentative embrace.  
  
Malcolm leaned a heavy head on his shoulder as Jamie rubbed soothing circles into the other man’s back. Jamie was an expert, but he didn’t know why it hurt for Malcolm. He wasn't sure if it would always hurt for him or if it was just this once. He hoped it was just a fluke. The whole thing had been an accident, but the tiny secret that Jamie would carry with him to his grave was that he was happy it had happened.


	8. Chapter 8

“Jamie, I’ve got to ask you something,” Malcolm asked late one night after he’d stumbled into the flat blearily, coming off a week’s worth of work in a matter of three days.

“Brought home a new pair of anal beads, then?” Jamie asked, looking up from the computer where he’d been knocking together a bit of work for an opinion column he’d taken on out of sheer boredom. 

“You wish,” Malcolm replied, pulling a chair to sit beside him. “They’re going to have to call the election any day now. And I’m tearing myself to fucking bits trying to manage the absolute shit storm Steve Fleming has thrown my way. I need help.”

Jamie furrowed his brow. “I don’t really give a shite about politics.”

“I know. But you’re the only person I’ve ever met that was actually competent,” Malcolm admitted. “You’re a fucking soldier. And I trust you.”

“I like my job now,” Jamie argued, saving his draft, then shutting the computer down. “Why would I want to start making those MP cunts look like they were actually capable of higher primate reasoning?”

“You  _ don’t _ fucking like your job now,” Malcolm smirked. “And you’ve always gotten a fucking stiffy out of telling mindless fuckers what to do. On second thought...this might be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

“Worried I’d spend too much time pulling you into the closet?” Jamie put his feet on Malcolm’s thighs, a move he knew Malcolm abhorred, but with the intention of reminding Malcolm that he did have a bit of power in this conversation.

“If that happened, which it fucking wouldn’t, you’d be the one on your knees,” Malcolm replied, pushing Jamie’s feet off him.

“I thought we agreed it’d be best if I didn’t work under you again,” Jamie said. “Outside the flat, that is.”

“So you can tell just how fucking desperate I am,” Malcolm prodded. He was laying the full charm out, which Jamie had always been hopelessly drawn towards, like a fist to a wanker's face.

Jamie ducked his head. “Temporary gig, yeah? Once the election is over, I’m back to the rags.”

Malcolm took Jamie’s hand and held it within both of his, long elegant fingers entwined with his rough, stubby digits. Jamie's skin buzzed at the touch, as if Malcolm's hands completed the circuit. He had to let go. Too much. He had to keep under control.

“You fucking owe me, Malc,” Jamie said, looking Malcolm in the eyes and hoping he wouldn’t see the hollow gaze of a man consumed by a mission and upset when the hope was snubbed out. There was a burnt ember of a man left inside and Jamie always felt like he was trying to keep the spark alive against an unrelenting gale.

Malcolm nodded. “Aye. A run maybe? Not during the moon. Proper trip back up home. Long weekend when this all calms down?”  
  
Jamie nodded. Fuck. He knew the promise was empty. He knew there would just be a new promise after this promise. But he’d always fucking agree. He’d roll over for the man whenever he asked, because he was so fucking in love with him it was tragic.


	9. Chapter 9

“But you know what really fucking riles me up about Remus Lupin,” Jamie shouted towards the kitchen. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Jamie not this again--they’re kiddie books,” came Malcolm’s voice.

“No they fucking are not, first of all. Second of all: Remus Lupin’s werewolfism is supposed to be a fucking allegory. For the fucking AIDS crisis.  _ And he’s not even gay _ .”

“Allegory’s quite a big word for a creature that licks his own bollocks.” Malcolm walked into the living room, holding a wooden spoon over a saucepan and offering it to Jamie. “Try this?”

“I don’t know, Malc,” Jamie said, sniffing suspiciously at the spoon. “You’re not trying to fucking off me are you? What if it’s not as satisfying as licking my own bollocks?”

“Just try the fucking curry, yeah?”

“Veg?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst fucking werewolf.”

“Wake up covered in blood a few times and tell me if you still have a stomach for it. It’s not as romantic as I make it sound at work,” Jamie replied, finally taking a tentative lick of the curry on the spoon. “Oh fuck me.”

“Good?”

Jamie grabbed the spoon from Malcolm’s hand and licked it clean. Malcolm yanked it back with a disapproving glare. “Jesus Christ, you don’t always have to act like a fucking wild animal.”

“I know you get a massive erection anytime I give you the satisfaction of a compliment, so try to save pitching the tent in your trousers til after dinner,” Jamie said, sinking back down into the armchair.

Malcolm scowled and turned back towards the kitchen, but Jamie grabbed him by the arm before he was able to leave the room. “You can’t have another lick and you’re not giving me a blow job right now, so you better make a good fucking choice right now, son.”

Smiling, Jamie grabbed Malcolm’s free hand and gave it a kiss.

“You fucker,” Malcolm said softly, a slight upward pull at the corner of his lips. A smile, as some people would describe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit of fluff before the next (and last!) chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

“Jesus Christ,” Jamie breathed in. “You look like the fucking Grim Reaper’s shite.”

Malcolm was in a long black overcoat. His silver hair unkempt and grown out. Face unshaven and hollowed. Specs perched precariously off that beak of a nose. Malcolm hadn’t aged well.

“You look like you keep a fucking portrait in your attic. How the fuck is it possible you haven’t aged in the last 9 years?” Malcolm said, dumbfounded.

Jamie had aged, of course. The lines around his eyes deeper, a smattering of grey hairs had taken root. Skin a little looser under the chin.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Malcolm?” Jamie forced out his name as if it were a curse, crossing his arms and puffing himself up a bit.

“You want to go away with me for a bit? Up North?” Malcolm took off his specs and put them in his inner coat pocket.

“Christ, you’ve really got some fucking gall,” Jamie spat out. “Half a mind to kick you in the bollocks and slam the door in your face.”

Malcolm put the bag slung across his shoulder down and held out his hands in a show of submission.

Jamie shook his head and growled. “Fuck. Fuck! Just come in. I don’t want to have any fucking witnesses when I rip out your spine with my bare hands.”

Picking up his bag, Malcolm followed him into the house, down a narrow corridor and into a small kitchen.

“You did some work with the SNP last go round, yeah?” Malcolm asked, sitting down at Jamie’s small table.

“Why are you fucking here, Malcolm?” Jamie asked, running the tap to fill the kettle then putting it on to boil. “If it’s to talk politics you can fuck off right now. I’m not your way back in.”

Malcolm played with the frayed thread of a button hole on his coat, though didn’t move to take it off. “Not trying to get back into politics.”

The water boiling, Jamie took out two tea bags and mugs, making their tea. After nearly ten years he still knew how Malcolm took it. Splash of milk, heaving teaspoon of sugar.

“Ta,” Malcolm said quietly.

“Are you dying?” Jamie asked, sitting down opposite and glaring at Malcolm.

Malcolm shook his head, sipping his tea slowly. “How about it? Run around a bit? Shed our skin?”

Jamie shook his head. “Absolutely fucking mental,” he laughed. “I’m not in the mind to get addicted to you again. Worked out pretty fucking badly for me last time.”

Taking another sip of his tea, Malcolm looked away. “Did you get any of my letters?”

“Aye, but doesn’t mean I read ‘em.” He nodded towards a cabinet. “In there if you want them back.”

“Thought you would’ve burned them at least,” Malcolm said, a slight spasm at the corner of his mouth as if he were fighting a smile. “Jamie, would you come away with me for a bit?”

“Tell me what you’re fucking doing here,” Jamie said slowly, dangerously. “Or you can fuck off out of my life for good.”

Malcolm breathed in, clasping his hands around the mug. “It’s always been you, Jamie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Malcolm paused and considered, then finished his tea in a gulp. “I got it wrong when I called you a soldier. That was never what it fucking was,” Malcolm said, looking away. He stood up and grabbed his bag, floor creaking beneath him as he stepped towards Jamie, tentatively placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Read the letters,” he said, removing his hand then walking towards the corridor. “Then come away with me for a bit?”

And then Malcolm melted back into the shadows, the soft opening and closing of the front door sounding miles away. Jamie felt the lingering warmth of Malcolm's touch on his shoulder. He shivered.

Jamie looked at the cupboard where, for some mental reason, he’d kept the letters. Years of them. Malcolm had written many at first. After the inquiry, after his sacking, after the trial where somehow, by the skin of his bollocks, he’d come out without any prison time. But he’d become an untouchable. No one in politics would have him and his name carried too much baggage for consulting.

Jamie had kept tabs on Malcolm. Even before the letters started coming.

Sighing, Jamie went to open the cupboard and took out the stack. Not many. Fifteen, all told. Which, for it having been nine years since Malcolm had blown up after Jamie’s political schism and Jamie had fucked off back to Scotland with his tail between his legs, was pretty reasonable.

So one by one, he started to read them. He hadn’t kept them in order so the content jumped around. Malcolm’s scrawl going from carefully controlled to wild chaos as they went back and forth from hope to despair. He’d fucked everything up. He’d spent a lost weekend trapped in the bottle. He’d left London and reconnected with his sister and niece. He’d moved back to Glasgow. He was lost. He was found.

Jamie put the last letter in the pile down and scrubbed his face. Malcolm had only dedicated a few lines in each letter to a status update. The rest was spent apologising.

_You were the best fucking thing in my miserable life and I couldn’t fucking see it. I got everything I deserved and I’m sorry you didn’t._

“Oh fuck me,” Jamie groaned.

 

[ _Away_ ]

 

Malcolm leaned his head against the passenger side window, looking out at the desolate scenery.

“Surprised you’re not complaining about the music,” Jamie said, not taking his eyes off the empty stretch of road before him.

Malcolm looked over. “No Jolson?”

Jamie shook his head. “Liking a singer that performed in blackface and being a socially conscious political consultant seemed to be at odds.”Malcolm’s face lit up at the mention of politics, though he remained silent about the topic. “Mature of you.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Aye, I think you’ll fucking find that I am capable of rational thought.”

“At least one of us is, then,” Malcolm replied, looking over. “Hey.”

Jamie glanced over.

Malcolm looked at him earnestly, his eyes watery. “I don’t want to fucking fight, yeah?”

Jamie nodded. “Just a bit odd, is all.”

“What is?”

“You’ve fucking gone all shaman. Too quiet. Shouting Malc I know how to deal with. Call me a cunt a few times and it’s just like the old days. I don’t know what to do with you if you don’t threaten to tear me limb from limb and play the fucking drum solo to ‘In the Air Tonight’ with my fucking amputated arms?”

Malcolm tilted his head to the side, pensive. “Bit tragic, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?”

“That we can’t ever say how we feel. How we always have to make some fucking threat.” Malcolm reached over and rested his hand atop Jamie’s.

“It was never ‘we’, Malc. It was always you.”

Malcolm looked over at him, but Jamie was focused on the road.

“I can say, too easily, that I never stopped loving you. But I have no fucking idea if you ever even _started_ loving me,” Jamie said, fighting against the razor wire in his throat to keep his tone neutral.

“Aye, of course I did. And I never stopped either.” Malcolm withdrew his hand, looking away, back out the window. He folded in on himself, Jamie noticed. He was so slight now. Looked almost frail, but with a feral edge (the growth of silvery beard, the long unruly hair). There was nothing left of Malcolm to hide away, Jamie thought. How easy it would be to believe he wasn’t being spun, to let go of his pride, to fall back in.

“It’s nothing but words though, isn’t it? Which you never understood. It’s not about what you say. It had never been about what you said. It was always what you _did_ and then one day, what you no longer did. Say what you like, but words aren’t your way back in with me.”

“S’all I’ve got, Jamie. There’s nothing else to me. What little that’s left, that’s yours.”

Jamie considered. “What if it’s not enough?”

“I’m fucking terrified that’s the truth,” Malcolm replied softly.

Jamie put his hand on Malcolm’s knee. He was surprised at the warmth as Malcolm had always seemed to him to be in a perpetual state of chill. Malcolm grabbed his hand desperately, held it between his hands like some small bird he was afraid would fly away if he opened his grip even slightly.

Jamie kept his eyes on the road. There were no cars in front and none behind. Sunshine peaked through the clouds, falling along the mountain ridges. His hand was warm and Malcolm’s palms were rough. He noticed a sign ahead and realised he was gripping Malcolm’s hand just as tightly as Malcolm was gripping his.

 

[ _Beginning_ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'd be so easy to keep this story going indefinitely, but even as I started to write a bit more past [beginning], it just seemed right to end it where it really begins. The fairytale monsters get their happily ever after (or something like it).
> 
> Thanks everyone for the lovely comments and for sticking with my erratic updates. I hope you've all enjoyed.


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